


Walk Like A Man

by wishwellingtons



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: 2008, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, Robbie POV, not Series 8 compliant, old fic which I found, set circa Series 3/4, this is not as awfully tragic as you'd think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 05:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2680646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishwellingtons/pseuds/wishwellingtons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Hathaway has a cold. He's driving Lewis mad. Six months into a happy - if secret - relationship, Lewis finds himself saying something he regrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk Like A Man

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the (first, and not much altered) original version of this back in 2008, and only remembered I'd done so the other day. In the spirit of making AO3 the most comprehensive repository of fic, I'm putting it here. In the original post (several livejournals ago), I thanked obstinatrix for beta-ing, so that still stands! 
> 
> Clearly, this is set back circa Series 2-3, with James very much still a sergeant, and Robbie and Laura not yet a couple. I hope you enjoy it - thank you very much for reading.

Even after six months of baffling happiness, reflected Robbie Lewis, there were times when it was unaccountably difficult to remember that James Hathaway was his boyfriend and the light of his life, as opposed to merely his lanky and facetious sergeant.

 

One of these occasions was the first time - together or single - that Lewis had ever seen him ill. The previous evening (spent at Lewis's), Hathaway had been as grumpy as a bear with a sore head, refusing all suggestions of sex (which was actually something of a relief - the sex was spectacular and Robbie enjoyed it, but he did occasionally worry that James's enthusiasm might kill him off mid-coitus) in favour of sprawling across the sofa and keeping up a constant stream of whinge, about everything from the banality of BBC television programming to his (repeated) claim that Robbie's tap water  "tasted funny" . Eventually, boiling forehead pressed miserably against Lewis's chest, he'd suffered himself to be conducted to bed and given painkillers. Lewis's depleted store of patience was worn still thinner by the prospect of listening to Hathaway snoring congestedly all night. Which he did, leaving Lewis helplessly awake at the side of a human furnace.

 

By three o'clock, Hathaway had stolen all the bedcovers and Lewis was still awake. Torn between the promised good of sleep and the certain evil of back pain, he dragged himself to the sofa, only to be woken again by Hathaway at five. James stood in the doorway wrapped in a bedsheet and doing his best Jacob Marley impression, his stifled insistence that Robbie was being  "so unfair"  delivered entirely without normal vowel sounds. Then he whinged, shuffled back off and - as the snoring indicated - was asleep again as soon as he hit the pillow.

 

In the morning, Hathaway looked so genuinely awful that Lewis - bruised and exhausted as he was - felt a tender compassion, rubbing the lad's back and even making the token suggestion that he ring in sick. With his best public school stoicism, however, Hathaway resisted (he was back to calling Lewis  _sir_ , a habit he'd never entirely lost in the mornings), unfortunately destroying the impression of noble endurance by complaining loudly about the lack of free-range eggs and wholemeal toast (the only kind that Hathaway would reliably eat).

 

By ten o'clock, James was bitching constantly about his stuffed nose and banging head, attracting such a cacophonous flutter of female sympathy throughout the office that Lewis (who, it must be admitted, hated to see anyone else with their hands on Hathaway) lost his temper.

 

Slamming a wad of paperwork down in an arc through a gap in the crowd gathered to condole with the newly pale-and-interesting Boy Wonder, he told Hathaway to for god's sake get on with some work, it was only a bloody cold.

 

And then, in a fatal postscript he was to instantly regret , Lewis added (perhaps provoked by the accusing stares, or the manicured hand on James's shoulder),  "Try being a _man_ about it" .

 

And so Hathaway said nothing. Not a word, either of complaint or accusation, passed his lips; and, two hours later, he passed out on Innocent's carpet.

 

Robbie barked his shin on the edge of a desk in getting there, getting through the sudden crowd. It was all over relatively quickly; Innocent shouting to everyone to get back even as Robbie barged through; Innocent calling James's name, cradling his head in her lap. An instant after Robbie arrived, James's eyelids began to flicker, stirring where he'd fainted.

 

He was pale, but his eyes opened, and after glancing up at Innocent to confirm where he was, he seemed to start recovering.

 

It was all over relatively quickly; but in that first instant, hearing the thud and seeing Jim so still, Lewis had known terror; and when Innocent cried  "He's burning up," and glared up at Lewis like the world was his fault, Lewis was wretchedly inclined to agree.

 

Registering his surroundings, James first gave Innocent an attempt at a smile, but his eyes were seeking someone else; as his hand came up to touch Innocent's on his cheek, his head turned, and Lewis forced himself to stay still and not drop down onto the floor beside him. When Hathaway spotted him and murmured,  "Isn't this your job, sir?"  Lewis would have sworn he meant to cause no pang, only make a joke that could have signified _anything_ ; but his heart hurt, and James's eyes were soft and forgiving and Lewis wanted to start apologising (and yank Hathaway firmly out of everybody else's arms).

 

The crowd, relieved if mildly bored, began to disperse.

 

"James, you're going home. You - _silly_ \- boy, what were you _doing_ here? You're not so indispensible and Lewis and I aren't so senile that we can't manage without you.” Innocent had by now graduated to worriedly stroking his hair, while Hathaway gazed up at her, unfocused but trusting.  “Robbie, put him in a car, find a DC to drive him.”

 

Grateful for any opportunity to touch him, Robbie got - clumsily - down to the floor, his anxious eyes meeting James's in a few seconds of private - but total - relief.  "I'll take him, ma'am."

 

Innocent frowned.  "Are you sure - no, sit him up slowly, it might come back - oh, you poor idiot, you're boiling - " At any other time, Lewis would have smiled to see Innocent unwittingly make a pet of Hathaway, but there was no thought of that now; his hands were shaking. Wobbly, James sat up and leant (more-or-less necessarily) against him, Lewis still fighting to keep from wrapping the younger man in his arms.

 

"I can take a taxi,"  Hathaway murmured, sounding dreadful. A thought struck him, and he reached into his jacket.  "Actually, I've got my keys.."

 

"Don't be ridiculous, man," Lewis snapped, giving in to impulse and wrapping a warm, strong, _possesive_ arm around his shoulders.  "You just sit there for a second and we'll go. It's on the way over to the crime scene, anyway," he added loudly, as much for Innocent's benefit as anybody else.

 

The Superintendent, now hoisting herself to her feet and trying to regain some dignity (really, she told herself, she had to stop treating Hathaway as though he was some sort of _baby_ ), nodded and turned away, brushing down her skirt as she headed out of her office. Unable to help it, Lewis squeezed James’s shoulders and pressed his lips to the younger man's brow for a second.  "I'm sorry, pet."

 

If Innocent heard, she gave no sign of it.

 

Lewis got Hathaway down and into his car about ten minutes later, having first nagged Laura to look him over.  " I prefer them dead, Robbie; your Sergeant's still alive,"  she murmured, raising an eyebrow before making the distinctly arm's-length diagnosis that Hathaway had a nasty bug and she didn't want to catch it. "And stop fussing. You're like an old mother hen. Fell at Innocent's feet, eh?"

 

Hathaway gave her a crooked smile, although Lewis could see he was trying hard to stay awake.  "Had to get her to notice me somehow."

 

Once strapped into Lewis's passenger seat, Hathaway fell asleep almost at once. To Robbie's surprise, and groggily, he lifted his head again about ten minutes later. "I don't live down here."

 "I do," said Lewis, a little too quickly. "I'm taking you to mine. There's food there," he added, setting his jaw and trying to seem magisterial despite the redness in his cheeks. 

 

Hathaway didn't contest this, smiling slightly before closing his eyes again. There were dark circles beneath them, still; Lewis, who had mentally been calling himself every name he could think of, checked his rear view mirror, and sighed.

 

He couldn't stop worrying, either. James was unusually docile, once in the flat; he let Lewis press painkillers and a cold compress upon him, but he was swaying where he stood. Between them, they got Hathaway undressed almost in silence, Lewis longing to apologise but not knowing where to begin. The only emotion coming from Hathaway (apart from pain) was mute relief; he let Lewis do everything, silent with thankfulness at letting someone else take over. Lewis didn't like to think what the two hours before he collapsed but have been like. His skin, where Lewis touched it, was hot and feverishly clammy; he seemed too tired and listless even to mind borrowing Lewis's pyjamas ( _Time you kept your own things here_ ,  Lewis murmured, and was rewarded with a weary smile).

 

Only when Lewis guided him towards the bedroom did he start to protest, fastidiously appalled at the idea of putting his sweat-damp body into Robbie's clean sheets.

 

"As if it matters," Robbie chided, attempting to propel him, but James started to argue, head slumping onto Robbie's shoulder. Faced with the prospect of another round of swooning, mewling complaint, Lewis reluctantly agreed to shower _together_ ; Hathaway, he had to observe, wasn't too sick to quirk a smile at that.

 

Immersed in the steam and spray, Robbie finally relaxed. He'd hated this, the first few times, but James's unconcern about the disparity in their bodies had persisted, and sometimes - when everything was at once so intimate and so casual - Lewis now found it easier to say (or _do_ ) things here, in the shower, than he would anywhere else. Now, chest soothed, aching muscles warmed, James leaned back against him in luxury, eyes closed as Lewis gently wrapped an arm around his waist, slid a hand up into his hair.

 

 "God, that feels good," he groaned, pressing his head further into Lewis's hand. Relieved to be getting something right, Lewis cautiously pressed a kiss into James's smooth shoulder; sometimes, too, he found that it was easier to be tender with James when the latter couldn't see. The younger man sighed. "You okay?"

 

 "Me? Yeah.” He swirled his fingertips over James’s neck again, biding time. “Listen, I'm sorry about earlier. I was a git."

 

The problem with having these sort of conversations like this was that neither man could disguise it when his body tensed and flinched.

 

James kept his voice careful.  "About _being a man_ , you mean?"  He paused, and Lewis hated himself. They might as well have been back on New College Lane.  "Doesn't matter."

 

Lewis frowned.  "It does matter. Regretted it as soon as I said it.... James. Please."

 

He felt Hathaway deliberating for a moment before the younger man sighed and sank back, turning his face up towards the spray.  "Still said it."

 

“I know. But - you are a man, you're a good man and a brave policeman and I'm a grumpy old arse. I'd - you know I'd never think less of you for what we have, right? I mean. " He was failing at this, he'd always failed at this - six months in and he'd never said _I love you_ , serve him right if Hathaway wanted different,  "I should have seen you were ill and taken better care of you, for god's sake, James, you're my -" The word 'world' was hovering, it would be the gayest thing he'd ever said, but it was true and Lewis accepted his doom,  "- world, and I don't ever want to hurt you. You're everything. You can say anything to me, I'm sorry I upset -"

 

"- I just I didn't want to make a fuss -"

 

"I know, love, I know. I know I upset you."

 

“You – “

 

“I did. I know.”

 

Hathaway turned in Lewis's embrace, arms resting on the older man's shoulders.  "You sound as though you _want_ me to be upset."  He raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk appearing on his face. He pressed his hips closer to Lewis.

 

Kissing his nose (it was a ridiculous impulse, but Lewis had learned over the past six months that ridiculous impulses could sometimes be appreciated), Lewis tried to look firm.  "I want you to get better, which you won't do by any – ” he searched for the word, face flushing, and Hathaway's grin turned wide, easily delighted, “ – _shenanigans_ in the shower. Now turn that thing off - the _tap_ , Sergeant, how old are you - and let's get you into bed. And shut up."

 

James did manage several witty remarks on the way to the bedroom, but if his chest had been cleared by the shower, his head was thoroughly befuddled, and he sank with some relief into the nearest side of the bed. This sinking did not include waiting for Lewis to draw back the bedcovers, which meant further prodding and negotiating on Lewis's part, until Hathaway was something like properly installed.

 

Lewis, his own mind less than clear at the sight of Hathaway nestled there with his hair damp and his eyes fixed tiredly and mournfully on himself, found himself loading every piece of fruit and every painkiller (as well as, in an unromantic afterthought, a large bucket and a roll of tissue) into a tribal pyramid on the bedside table. Hathaway blinked up at him and coughed. It was a piteous sound.

“I really do have to go, y'know. Corpse at Iffley Lock.”

 

Hathaway sniffed.

“...for God's sake, don't look like that, you're not the bloody Andrex puppy.”

 

Hathaway said something wordless.

 

“What?”

 

Hathaway lifted his head and spoke into the air as opposed to Lewis's duvet.  "Turn my pillows?"

Exasperated (neither of his kids had been this much trouble, nor bloody _Morse_ ), Lewis complied, giving James's shoulder a reassuring pat when he was done.  “I've got my mobile.”

 

"Noooooooooooooooooooooo, " Hathaway said, or something similar, and in any case, it was more of a mewl-slash-whine.  "Stay for a bit. You're always off with those dead people, it's _sick,_ and anyway, I'm dying here."

 

"You are _not_ ," said Robbie firmly, but he took off his shoes, sitting down on the bed and loosening his tie with one hand. "Bloody hell, Sergeant."  Hathaway burrowed into his side, and Lewis knew he was lost.

 

Very gently, he ran his hand over Hathaway's hair and down his back, hoping the gesture would serve for the words he still couldn't say. 

“Close your eyes, love, I'm here.” Grateful, Hathaway moved enough to press his forehead against the blissful comfort of Lewis's chest; Lewis woke up three hours later when Innocent rang his mobile.

 

If Innocent heard his  "sorry, pet" on answering, or the rustle of bedding as Hathaway curled tighter against him, she gave no sign of that either.

 


End file.
